the last of our docks—until the new Victoria
Docks in the Essex marshes are formed.
Here, is the last station of the Blackwall
railway. Here, is the last struggle of
Middlesex for existence: Bow Creek being
the only barrier between it and Essex. Here,
is the last bend and quirk of the river Lea,
before it adds its humble driblet of water to
the Thames. And here, is the last and final
limit to the metropolis, beyond which, for
some miles, we have little else than low–lying
swampy ground. Taken altogether, a curious
little nook this, lying just outside the Isle
of Dogs proper, but connected with it by
many ties of relationship.

             THE SETTLERS.

    Two stranger youths in the Far West,
        Beneath the ancient forest trees,
     Pausing, amid their toil to rest,
        Spake of their home beyond the seas;
     Spake of the hearts that beat so warmly,
        Of the hearts they loved so well,
     In their chilly northern country.
        "Would," they cried, "some voice could tell
     Where they are, our own beloved ones!"
        They looked up to the evening sky
     Half hidden by the giant branches;
        But heard no angel–voice reply.
     All silent was the quiet evening;
        Silent were the ancient trees;
     They only heard the murmuring song
        Of the summer breeze,
     That gently played among
        The acacia trees.

    And did no warning spirit answer,
        Amid the silence all around;
     "Before the lowly village altar
        She thou lovest may be found,
     Thou, who trustest still so blindly,
        Know she stands a smiling bride!
     Forgetting thee, she turneth kindly
        To the stranger at her side.
     Yes, this, day thou art forgotten,
        Forgotten, too, thy last farewell,
     All the vows that she has spoken,
        And thy heart has kept so well.
     Dream no more of a starry future,
        In thy home beyond the seas!"
     But he only heard the gentle sigh
        Of the summer breeze,
     So softly passing by
        The acacia trees.

    And vainly, too, the other, looking
        Smiling up through hopeful tears,
     Asked in his heart of hearts, "Where is she,
        She I love these many years?"
     He heard no echo calling faintly:
        "Lo, she lieth cold and pale,
     And her smile so calm and saintly
        Heeds not grieving sob or wail—
     Heeds not the lilies strewn upon her,
        Pure as she is, and as white,
     Or the solemn chanting voices,
        Or the taper's ghastly light."
     But silent still was the ancient forest,
        Silent were the gloomy trees,
    He only heard the wailing sound
        Of the summer breeze,
     That sadly played around
        The acacia trees!

   A HAPPY RETURN TO CRANFORD.

BEFORE I left Miss Matey at Cranford
everything had been comfortably arranged for
her. Even Mrs. Jamieson's approval of her
selling tea had been gained. That oracle had
taken a few days to consider whether by so
doing Miss Matey would forfeit her right to
the privileges of society in Cranford. I think
she had some little idea of mortifying Lady
Glenmire by the decision she gave at last;
which was to this effect: that whereas a
married woman takes her husband's rank by
the strict laws of precedence, an unmarried
woman retains the station her father occupied.
So Cranford was allowed to visit Miss Matey;
and, whether allowed or not, it intended to
visit Lady Glenmire. But what was our
surprise—our dismay—when we learnt that
Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins were returning on the
following Tuesday. Mrs. Hoggins! Had
she absolutely dropped her title, and so, in a
spirit of bravado, cut the aristocracy to
become a Hoggins! She, who might have been
called Lady Glenmire to her dying day! Mrs.
Jamieson was pleased. She said it only convinced
her of what she had known from the
first, that the creature had a low taste. But
"the creature" looked very happy on Sunday
at church; nor did we see it necessary to keep
our veils down on that side of our bonnets on
which Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins sate, as Mrs.
Jamieson did; thereby missing all the smiling
glory of his face, and all the becoming blushes
of hers. I am not sure if Martha and Jem
looked more radiant in the afternoon, when
they too made their first appearance. Mrs.
Jamieson soothed the turbulence of her soul,
by having the blinds of her windows drawn
down, as if for a funeral, on the day when
Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins received callers; and
it was with some difficulty that she was
prevailed upon to continue the St. James's
Chronicle, so indignant was she with its having
inserted the announcement of the marriage.

Miss Matey's sale went off famously. She
retained the furniture of her sitting–room,
and bed–room; the former of which she was
to occupy till Martha could meet with a
lodger who might wish to take it; and into
this sitting–room and bedroom she had to
cram all sorts of things, which were (the
auctioneer assured her) bought in for her at
the sale by an unknown friend. (I always
suspected Mrs. Fitz–Adam of this; but she
must have had an accessory, who knew what
articles were particularly regarded by Miss
Matey on account of their associations with
her early days. The rest of the house looked
rather bare to be sure; all except one tiny
bedroom, of which my father allowed me to
purchase the furniture for my occasional use,